


His Infinite Variety

by cassieoh



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Aziraphale Has a Penis (Good Omens), Aziraphale's Bookshop (Good Omens), Crowley Has A Vulva (Good Omens), Demon Summoning, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Light breathplay, M/M, NO choking, Post-Canon, Pre-Negotiated Kink, Roleplay, Rough Sex, South Downs Cottage (Good Omens), Summoning Circles, Tenderness, based off art, but they were actually married and just having a good time?, by covering mouth and nose, references to safe words, the negotiation is sort of in the fic, what if the arrangement was a demon tempting an angel while the angel tries to ‘purify’ the demon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-02
Updated: 2021-01-02
Packaged: 2021-03-12 16:27:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,682
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28513398
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cassieoh/pseuds/cassieoh
Summary: Crowley and Aziraphale have a little fun with summoning circles and what it means to be an angel and a demon (or at least what it might mean if the world was much closer to a 1970s adult film).A good time is had by all.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 21
Kudos: 166
Collections: 12 Days of Blasphemy 2020, Top Aziraphale Recs





	His Infinite Variety

**Author's Note:**

  * For [WhiteleyFoster](https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhiteleyFoster/gifts).



> Based on some *gorgeous* art by [WhiteleyFoster](https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhiteleyFoster/pseuds/WhiteleyFoster) along with the little prompt given. COINCIDENTALLY counts as day 9 of [D20Owlbear](https://archiveofourown.org/users/D20Owlbear/pseuds/D20Owlbear)'s 12DaysofBlasphemy #efficiency.
> 
> Thanks to [sosobriquet](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sosobriquet/pseuds/sosobriquet) and [MovesLikeBucky](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MovesLikeBucky/pseuds/MovesLikeBucky) for the rapid betas <3 
> 
> Oh, and just for clarity; Crowley's out of character thoughts are in footnotes, so you can choose to read them or not <3

Crowley wakes on his back, already aching. It’s not the ache he’d anticipated, the cloying desperation of _want need more more oh fuck angel please touch me now._ No, this is different, deeper. 

More human. 

He’s on his back, wearing only his pants and the ratty vest top he mostly wears while gardening and only sometimes forgets to take off before collapsing into bed for a nap. But, he’s not in their bed. His shoulders and neck ache because there is too little padding between his bones and the hardwood floor. 

Why is he on the floor? 

He doesn’t remember getting quite _that_ drunk last night. 

Last night? 

Earlier today? 

Crowley realizes that he has no idea what time it is. Worse, he has no idea where he is because there are no hardwood floors in their home in rooms without windows and even without lifting his head or opening his eyes, Crowley is sure of at least that; he is in a room with no windows, no doors, nothing at all to let in even the faintest scrap of light. 

He scrapes one blunt fingernail across the boards next to his hip, the tiniest motion he can manage without alerting whoever might be watching that he’s awake (if he hasn’t somehow given it away already with his heartbeat or the increasingly shallow breathes he can’t quite seem to make himself stop taking). 

_Scritch. Scritch._

He waits. 

Nothing. 

Absolutely nothing. There is no returning _scritch_ like there would be in the basement of the cottage if he’d gotten too drunk and accidentally cask-of-amontillado’d himself (again). Herself, the one rat he’d not been able to part with upon leaving London for the countryside with Aziraphale, liked the basement and liked playing the echo game. She would always return his little scratchy calls. 

Then, he realizes that that nothing, really is _Nothing._

Ever since humans wrangled lightning into metal wires, Crowley has been able to hear it. He likes the sound, a pleasant buzz that lets him know he always has an escape route through the electrons waiting for him, but knows it sometimes gives Aziraphale the celestial equivalent of a headache. It was a compromise they’d had to figure out as they merged their homes; how to keep the angel comfortable while making sure the demon felt safe? Eventually, they settled on miraculously thick insulation throughout the cottage and eradicating all electrical items from the downstairs library. 

Crowley hasn’t been many places with wood flooring that don’t have at least a distant buzz of electricity, not in decades. 

Resigned to revealing that he is awake, he flickers his tongue out to sniff for the remnants of petrol that might tell him it is so quiet because the generator that powers things is turned off. His tongue feels heavy and strange and when it parts his lips there is no smell at all. Alarmed, he tries again with the same result. 

No sounds except the ones he makes, no smells at all. Crowley opens his eyes and feels his heart rate kick up another few notches because he can’t see anything either. His dull fingernails dig into the floor, desperately seeking some sort of sensory feedback. It almost feels as if the world is reeling around him and he has no real way of confirming that it isn’t, no way of knowing where he is or if there’s some hidden danger in the darkness, no way to run without possibly running right towards– 

“Hello there.” 

Crowley’s heart stutters but does not stop. 

“Aziraphale?” he whispers past the lump in his throat. Does whoever put him in this place also have Aziraphale? Have they somehow blinded and fettered the angel as well? Taken his sense of where all the lives and loves in the world meet and intertwine? 

“I haven’t given you permission to use my name, demon,” Aziraphale says. His voice is low and firm and goes straight to Crowley’s… cunt? He doesn’t remember wearing one of those last night, either. Then, what exactly Aziraphale had said filters through Crowley’s confused thoughts. 

Oh. 

_OH._

They’d talked about this, a few times really, making sure that they were both clear about what they were comfortable with, what lines could and could not be crossed. Crowley had been the one to suggest it originally, caught up in the fantasy after watching a terrible American show where the demon clearly did not appreciate the opportunity. Of course, there was rather a lot more holy water being flung about than any demon in their right mind would be comfortable with, but that wasn’t the important bit. 

He’d been sitting there with his back against Aziraphale’s side, head resting on the arm Aziraphale had draped across the back of the couch, watching the show on his phone[1] and then the demon had been summoned and he’d known exactly what he wanted. He paused the episode and twisted around so his chin was on Aziraphale’s shoulder and he’d made his eyes as big as possible. 

“Oh dear,” Aziraphale had said, marking his place with a bookmark[2]. “What terrible, demonic scheme are you about to insist I participate in?” 

Crowley had shaken his head, enjoying the way his chin dug into the soft flesh of Aziraphale’ chest. “No insisting,” he’d said very seriously. “Don’t want it if you’re not going to have fun.” 

He’d rushed to cut off the compliment he could see brewing. “Not nice, don’t be an ass.” 

“Of course, dearheart.” Aziraphale had pulled him up, turning around and resettling them so Crowley was draped across his chest. “What is it?” 

“Well….” Even now, weeks later, Crowley can still feel the way the blush had burned across his entire corporation. It was dead embarrassing to have to say things like this aloud. “I was thinking about all those candles you still have….” 

He hadn’t wanted to know when it was going to happen. Had wanted the surprise and _fuck him_ if he isn’t surprised. 

Well, fuck him if he is surprised as well. 

That _is_ the entire point, after all. 

“Who the fuck are you?” he snarls, sinking into character[3]. 

The angel doesn’t respond. For the first time it dawns on Crowley that he must not be breathing if he’s been so silent until now. Heart must be stopped, too. There’s absolutely no way for Crowley to know how he’s affecting him, if at all. 

“How does it feel?” 

Crowley jerks. The angel has somehow moved around behind him without him hearing anything. 

“How does what feel?” Suddenly realizing that he’s still lying prone on the hard floor, Crowley shoves himself up and then immediately topples over onto his face as he experiences the disconcerting feeling of the world spinning around him without being able to see it doing so. 

“That.” The angel sounds unaccountably smug[4]. “I expect you’re feeling weak, perhaps a bit shaky.” 

“The fuck did you do to me,” Crowley hisses. It comes out far less intimidating than he’d hoped it would with his face half squished into the floor. 

“Me? Oh, nothing at all really.” The angel has moved again. He’s making a slow circle around Crowley, he realizes. Blessit, he really has gone all in. 

“Clearly.” Crowley shoves himself up again, digging into the floorboards as hard as he can to stay upright until the world stops spinning. He runs his tongue along his aching teeth to check for chips and realizes what exactly it is that Aziraphale did. 

His canines are sharper than a standard human, that never changes, but there’s no hollow tip to them.

He’s in a blessed bloody _binding_ circle. Not just one intended for summoning. All his demonic abilities and aspects are locked away from him. Crowley is, until the circle is broken, a human with stupid pupils and slightly pointy teeth and that thought drives him swaying to his feet. He thinks about where the angel’s voice had first been and then where he’d moved to and tries to think through the sense-blindness to track where he should be now. Then, suddenly aware that the angel can probably see him just fine and he must look a damn fool, he lunges forward. 

His hands grasp nothing but air and then he hits a wall and the world flares to life. 

He still can’t smell anything, the sounds are still strangely muffled, but as he looks up from the floor[5] he can at least _see._ Some tension he hadn’t realized was coiled around his spine relaxes just a bit. 

He’s in the back corner of a bookshop[6]. The binding circle really must be something special because he can faintly hear people passing by outside the shuttered windows, can smell the incense that coils up from the points of the star etched into the floorboards (though he still can’t taste it when he breathes in through his mouth and it’s a singularly disconcerting realization). The circle is smaller than the pentagram, drawn out in a confident hand in the very center and then surrounded by a perfect row of candles all burning at the exact same height. Within the summoning circle itself is the binding sigil, a six pointed star that Crowley can feel singing along the very edges of his distant true form. Each and every spare scrap of space around the circle and stars is covered in cramped handwriting, all in gold and obviously sunk into the floorboards of the shop to prevent Crowley from simply scratching it to free himself[7]. 

Finally, he tears his attention away from the thing that called him and trapped him and looks for the one who orchestrated it. The angel has vanished. Crowley frowns[8].

A hand lands on his shoulder, carefully touching only the fabric save for a single fingertip that slips beneath the strap of the vest. He shudders as the angel leans in, there’s no breath on his neck until the angel speaks and the lack is singularly disconcerting. 

“Hello there,” the angel says and Crowley fights the conflicting urge to pull away and lean in[9]. 

“Let me out,” he snarls. “Or I’ll-”

“What?” The angel moves fully into the circle and Crowley can’t help that he pulls away. Angels aren’t meant to be in summoning circles. The magic that radiates from him twangs oddly against the sigils, making Crowley’s back teeth ache. “You’ll what? Oh, I suppose you could bite me, though it wouldn’t do much good. You could scratch me, but those are human nails, aren’t they?” 

Crowley looks at his nails and curses because the angel is right. 

“Lovely color, by the way[10].” 

“Get off me,” Crowley snaps and the angel does. He stands and crosses to the other side of the small space inside the circle. Crowley as he watches him go. Angels weren’t meant to be so attractive. Sinful, that seemed. 

A thought occurs. He could, possibly, use this whole situation to his advantage. Tempting an angel would be an awfully big feather[11] in his cap down in Hell. He eyes the angel up and down. 

Yeah, that would work. 

He catches the angel’s eye and allows a slow smile to spread across his face even as he shifts his weight a bit, further back onto his hips, leaned against the implacable wall of the binding, and spreads his legs just the slightest bit. 

The angel’s pupils dilate and Crowley’s smile widens[12]. 

“I have a theory,” the angel says. 

“Oh?” 

“Yes.” Then, faster than his human eyes can track the motion the angel is on him, hands wrapped around his wrists, as inescapable as manacles. 

“Hey!” Crowley tries for half a moment to escape, scooting down and away and then realizing that this is the perfect position to further his temptation and instead going completely limp. He opens his eyes wide and lets his mouth fall slightly open, wetting his bottom lip with the briefest swipe of his all too human tongue. 

"Well, hello there angel," he says, spreading his legs open just a bit wider beneath the angel's delicious bulk. "You know the Seven Deadlies aren't a try before you buy affair."

The angel blinks at him[13] and then something settles in his face that has flames rushing to the pit of Crowley's stomach. 

"My theory," he goes on as if Crowley hadn't spoken, "Is that when an angel Falls nothing really changes at their core. No, it's more like they're a sieve and all of their Grace has just slipped out through the mesh."

Crowley gapes up at him, his own attempts at temptation momentarily forgotten. 

"What the-"

The angel presses on, words tumbling from him in a rapid fire jumble[14]. "Most would say it's ridiculous of course, the idea that the difference between angels and demons could be so... well, pedestrian. They think it's either a scar left behind by a cruel God[15] or that there's really no difference at all besides whether the lift goes up or down[16]."

"And you think you know better?" He asks, half-breathless. 

The angel shrugs. "I intend to find out." He eyes Crowley, taking in his spread legs and the dark wet patch at the center of his pants. "And," he smiles at Crowley, eyes dark with lust, "I rather think you'll like my theory."

Then, he presses close and Crowley can feel how hard he is and he doesn’t try to stop the wanton moan that spills from him. Just part of the temptation, he justifies it to himself, really he was a professional and this was all part of–

The angel’s hand lands at the very edge of his pants and Crowley’s hips reflexively buck upward, grinding against the angel’s effort. 

“Theory?” He manages to say. There’s a distinctly odd feeling crawling across his skin; scales want to appear, his tongue wants to split and narrow, his mouth aches with the lack of venom, but it’s all impossible for him right now. Locked away outside the bounds of the circle. The angel’s fingers creep higher, higher, closer and Crowley’s head rolls back. 

“I believe it’s all about a lack of Grace,” the angel murmurs. His fingers skim the skin of Crowley’s inner thigh. “If I can fill you up with Grace you won’t be a demon anymore.” 

Crowley can’t help it. He snorts. The angel’s eyes meet his for a brief moment, a smile quirks his lips and Crowley surges upward, capturing him in a kiss. 

“Don’t think that’s how any of this works,” he whispers when he pulls away to breathe (fuckin’ circle). “But, I’m angling for a promotion and getting to fill out a Lust form for an angel? Quarterly reviews are coming up.” 

Another smile, a twinkle in the angel’s eyes and then a deep kiss that’s so distracting Crowley nearly misses the angel’s fingers finally, _finally,_ finding his core and plunging into him. His mouth opens in shock and then there’s a tongue, sliding over his own, mapping the contours of his mouth and all he can think is, _Wasn’t aware Grace meant quite this much spit._ Then, the angel’s thumb brushes against his clit and he’s really not concerned with the amount of spit anymore. 

“Well then,” the angel says (and fuck him because he sounds perfectly unruffled, it’s almost rude really). “We have an arrangement[17].”

Then, before Crowley can say anything else, he releases Crowley’s other wrist and snaps and they’re both nude and ohhhh, the angel’s cock stands out below his generous belly, the tip shining and his fingers are working still deeper in Crowley and he moans, throwing his head back. 

“Shit,” he says[18]. He crooks one leg up and over the angel’s back and yanks him closer, pulling a groan from his blessed fucking throat. The angel twists his wrist, withdrawing his fingers. But, before Crowley can protest he’s changed angles and then there are three fingers stretching Crowley wide and the angel is circling his clit with his thumb as he scissors his fingers and the ache and slip are nearly overwhelming and then Crowley cries out, knocking his head against the hard floor as the force of his orgasm causes him to jackknife uncontrollably. 

When he comes back to himself the hand the angel isn’t currently gently removing from his folds cradles the back of his head, fingers carding through his long hair. 

“Still a demon,” he says breathlessly[19]. 

Crowley reaches down between them and grasps the angel’s cock, gripping just hard enough to draw another long groan from him. He can feel precum beading at the tip when he slides his hand upward but before he can tease further the angel’s hands are on his ass, yanking him closer and then the hard length of him is slipping through Crowley’s folds and any hope of snark is gone because Crowley can only keen and clutch desperately at anything his hands can reach as the over-sensitivity causes him to twitch and clench down on nothing at all. 

“Of course you are,” the angel says, “I haven’t filled you yet.” 

Then, he pushes Crowley’s hand aside and there’s a brief terrible moment of nothing at all before he enters Crowley in a single long thrust and Crowley’s mouth in open in a soundless, breathless wail because it’s so good, perfect, wonderful, he doesn’t even know the words for what it is. It’s everything.

“Yes, yes, yes,” he pants into the angel’s hair, scrabbling at his back, pulling him closer as he starts to thrust, slow at first and then with ever increasing speed. His fingernails are blunt, but he can feel the raised lines they leave on the angel’s back, can feel the way the angel shudders against him as he thrusts, how his hips stutter when Crowley digs his nails in just a bit harder. 

The angel’s pace ramps up, faster, faster, and the only thing protecting Crowley’s head from the floor is the hand cradling the back of his skull. 

“So wet,” the angel groans, “So wet for me. You feel so good.”

The rhythm shifts, breaking and cresting like a wave against unexpected rocks. Crowley keens and tries to cant his hips upward, desperate for that delicious drag to angle slightly higher, just a bit–

“Going to be a Duke for this,” he says, “Fffuck, maybe even a Prince.” The angel scowls down at him. “They’ll broadcast the report prob’ly,” a particularly rough thrust leaves him momentarily breathless. The angel moves one knee up, widening Crowley’s legs without losing speed. There are a few little droplets of sweat on his brow[20] and Crowley gives in to his most demonic urge, surging upward to lick them away before kissing the angel again, letting him taste his own sweat and then grinning when he pulls away in disgust. 

“Maybe I’ll ask for a castle in the se-second circle,” Crowley goes on. “A proper prince of lust, me. Ohhh, yes there! Or, maybe even- woah!” 

The angel pulls out of him and then, before can recover or protest, he’s grabbed him by the hips and flipped him around, yanking up and back until Crowley is forced onto his hands and knees. A trail of slick coats his inner thighs and he can feel the hot pulse of the angel’s cock against his slit. 

“Angel likes it rough,” Crowley teases, craning his head around to look. His hair falls over his shoulder in a wave and he shudders as the cool air of the book shop rushes in to soothe his heated skin. The angel thrusts into him again and the new angle has him keening and pushing back, trying to match the angel’s frenetic movements. “Wi-will the fellas upstairs approve?” 

An especially brutal thrust hits the perfect spot deep inside and Crowley moans. “You said it’s your theory, is this even sanctioned?” 

He starts to turn again, to smirk and tease and drive the angel that much closer to his own end, but before he can there’s a hand covering his mouth and nose, forcing his head forward and the angel’s body is covering his, bearing down on him. He collapses to his elbows with a grunt, feeling as if all the air in the world is being driven from him by the angel’s cock and it presses deeper, deeper, he feels full and as if he’s been hollowed out and the hand is still holding his face as he tries to breathe in. 

The world grows hazy then as another orgasm rolls across Crowley in a powerful wave. He cries out, voice muffled by the angel’s hand and ohh, the angel has taken his voice, too. The world is already dim without his demonic senses, strangely quiet and scentless and far away, and the way his voice sounds through the angel’s thick fingers is nearly enough to send him toppling right back over the edge. 

He rides the crest of pleasure, halfway between overstimulation and perfection as the world narrows to nothing more than the feeling of fingers on his face and around his stomach and the angel moving within him, less and less controlled with each passing moment. Each thrust is powerful enough to push him against the hard floor and he’s only held in place at all by the implacable grip at his hip and face[21]. 

Finally, finally, the angel groans long and low and his hips stutter into Crowley, as close to him as possible in these forms, as his dick twitches and Crowley feels the warm rush of his release deep within. Then, there’s nothing at all, save the sound of Crowley’s panting breaths and the slow sensation of the angel softening inside of him and suddenly he’s lost all ability to hold himself up. He collapses in a heap on the floor, the angel following him down with a startled grunt. 

They lie on the floor for a moment, gasping for air, sticky with sweat and spend, before Aziraphale turns his head into Crowley’s neck and kisses his pulse point. As he does, the tiny flames of the candles vanish as if snuffed by a dozen hands and the world rushes back into Crowley as his senses return. He breathes in deep and can taste Aziraphale and sweat and the combined results of their efforts. He chuckles. 

“What?” Aziraphale mumbles. When Crowley looks he sees that his eyes are already half closed. 

“Nooo,” he whines, “No fair. I want to nap, you can’t go to sleep yet.” 

Aziraphale’s hold around his ribcage tightens as he pulls Crowley closer. “We can both nap, you silly thing.” 

“Yeah? And then who’s going to clean all this up?” He gestures to their stomachs and the floor and the sigils. “Because lemme tell you, I’m tapped. Do you know how exhausting human sex is?” 

Aziraphale snorts sleepily, his breath warm and humid against Crowley’s skin and he delights in the return of it and the heartbeats he can once again feel against his ribs. “Lazy bones,” he says. Then he distangles his fingers from Crowley’s and snaps. When Crowley opens his eyes they are clean and dry and halfway across England in the warm bedroom of their cottage. 

“Silly thing, lazy bones,” he says. “You keep talking like that and you’ll ruin my reputation.” 

“Mmm,” Aziraphale hums. He’s warm and soft and they’re surrounded by more pillows than any two people should own and Crowley loves him so much it hurts sometimes. 

“Yeah, yeah,” he whispers, scooting down to pillow his head on Aziraphale’s chest. The angel hums again, quieter. “I’ve already done all the ruining myself.” 

It’s worth it, he thinks as he closes his eyes and tugs Aziraphale’s arm close to his chest, to have a ruined reputation if it means they can have this. 

And maybe he’ll try to figure out that angel summoning ritual. That’d be fun. 

He drifts to sleep with a smile on his face. 

* * *

Footnotes

1. Aziraphale hated it and when Crowley asked why he’d given him the biggest, saddest eyes and asked how Crowley would feel if the show featured angels constantly getting tortured with Hellfire. Crowley had tried to wrangle a few sounds into words, something about it not being realistic anyhow, but had ultimately conceded the point and agreed to watch it on his phone with earbuds in.↩

2. A slip of paper stolen by demonic fingers from the refrigerator at the Dowling’s and carefully preserved with a Miracle, the clumsy crayon drawing of Warlock and Brother Francis still as bright as the day it was proudly presented to Aziraphale.↩

3. They’ve done this before, played at not knowing each other and it’s always exciting in it’s own way. He hadn’t been sure that Aziraphale would choose to arrange things this way, but oh the idea is electric.↩

4. He’s really brought out his best Bastard-with-a-capital-B for this. Fuck but Crowley loves him.↩

5. Again. Ugh.↩

6. Aziraphale’s bookshop obviously, but Crowley really has been trying to be more Method in his roleplay. It’s all much more fun that way.↩

7. The perfect copperplate might be cramped but it’s the same handwriting that was on their wedding invitations and Crowley has to look away from it before he begins to feel dangerously soft and ruins the evening.↩

8. Aziraphale wouldn’t leave him alone and vulnerable, he knows it deep in his chest, but the fear is an old one that he’s never quite been able to shake. The fourteenth century really was terrible.↩

9. In, in, in, all he wants is to turn around and grab Aziraphale, yanking him in for a kiss and then another and another until all he can taste is Aziraphale.↩

10. Of course it is, Aziraphale had picked it and then helped Crowley put it on, telling him the entire time about the new girl who worked the counter at the shop and how she was sweet, but entirely useless at recommending colors.↩

11. Hah.↩

12. Aziraphale has never been able to resist this smile, not since they admitted how they felt for each other. Of course Crolwey has never been able to resist the way Aziraphale’s jaw tenses when he’s trying to stop himself from biting his lip, so turnabout’s fair play.↩

13. Aziraphale has always struggled with the snarky banter parts of their roleplay more than the rest. It's endlessly endearing to be begging for mercy only for his husband to snicker and say, "Even the dishes?" halfway through Crowley's promise that he'd "please please, I'll do whatever you want, just have mercy". That, Crowley had reminded him through his own laughter, was not likely a concern many highwaymen had.↩

14. Anxious to explain, anxious too soothe, Crowley hadn't asked for humiliation and Aziraphale rushes to assure him that that's not what this is.↩

15. Crowley loves him.↩

16. Crowley loves him more than all the stars in the sky or stupid mammal-fish in the sea. It takes everything he has not to lean up and kiss the vaguely worried, apologetic look from Aziraphale's face. Aziraphale knows the words to end the scene the same as Crowley and Crowley has to trust that he'll use them.↩

17. The cheesy bastard.↩

18. And isn’t it weird not to hiss? He’s always a bit hissy by this point. Crowley wonders if Aziraphale misses it.↩

19. Come on, Aziraphale, he thinks, _take me._↩

20. He doesn’t have to sweat and Crowley knows it, but Aziraphale has always loved how much Crowley loves to see him lose his composure and always allows his corporation a bit more reign, even when they’re playing like this.↩

21. Muzzily, he thinks of how grateful he is that Aziraphale knows him so well. He likes not having all his sense, not having to deal with everything all at once, but having none of them is a fast trip to a terrible time and Aziraphale’s hands on him and the rough floor beneath his elbows are carefully calculated to ensure this is fun.↩


End file.
